missed the guy.
Kent made idle circles on the table top with his glass. Maybe when he came back, he'd talk to him, try to work things out. Or buy him out. He closed his eyes briefly. The thought of handling Beachline alone gave him pause. Which made no sense at all, because that's exactly what he'd been doing for months. But he had no desire to make it a permanent condition. He took a swallow of Scotch, shoved Con out of his mind, and leaned back in his chair.
He had pleasanter things to think about, like a certain quirky, one-of-a-kind woman with the maternal instinct of a rabbit, who, in a matter of days, had so turned him on that his wake-up condition was painfully predictable. Waking up aroused was okay when a man could do something about it, but when his only something was an icy shower, he was in a bad way. Yeah, if it was just good old-fashioned lust, he'd have alternatives He glanced disinterestedly around the packed room. More than one opportunity in this place. He stifled a yawn.
His nose picked up on a scent. Something from the kitchen. Clove. Cinnamon. Both. He swiveled in his chair.
Rosie. She hadn't spotted him yet, even though she was only about three feet away, sitting with Jonesy. His whole body straightened, and his hand fell away from his drink. He couldn't believe he'd missed her on the way in. Maybe because she looked so... different. Her brace was gone, exposing a pale, delicate neck, and her hair was swept back and up in a wild head-topping arrangement that would baffle a NASA scientist. She was spectacular.
And a man's arm was draped casually on the back of her chair.
She was with someone.
A blast of unexpected jealousy effectively halted all normal thought processes in his brain. By the time it cleared, he found himself calmly evaluating two courses of rational action. Either doing the cave man thing—which involved bludgeoning her date with a steel-studded cudgel and dragging Rosie from the room by her copper hair—or heeding the sage advice of an old deodorant commercial: "Never let 'em see you sweat."
Still undecided, he got to his feet. They led him directly to Rosie.
Chapter 8
"That's nice. That's real nice," Rosie said, trying to widen her eyes enough to appear somewhat interested. Not that it mattered. Roland was a lot more interested in Roland than conversational feedback.
What the heck had Jonesy been thinking of to set her up -with this guy? She looked at her watch. The way she had it figured, she'd been here about six weeks, and they hadn't even been served dinner yet. There had to be a way out of this date. She massaged her newly accessible throat and clamped her teeth over a welling yawn. Maybe she could convince ole Roland to FedEx his ego to her place. She'd stroke it a few hundred times and send it back. Easier for all concerned. While Roland droned on about Roland, she tried to come up with an escape plan.
She couldn't risk kicking Jonesy under the table again, or the woman would be going home in a wheelchair. Obviously Jonesy liked her own date. Sheesh!
Should've brought my own car, darn it. If Jonesy reneges on her promise to drive me home, I'll—
"What are you doing here, O'Hanlon?"
The voice came from behind her, cool and unfriendly. Rosie looked up and into the last pair of eyes she expected to see. And of course she was immediately warm all over, glad, mad, and befuddled.
"Kent?" she questioned, hitting a high note on the dumb response-o-meter.
"Last I checked," he said mirthlessly, nodding in Jonesy's direction and giving her a smile that looked as though it had already been used. Jonesy raised a brow and grinned back. Without acknowledging the two men at the table, Kent turned his gaze back to Rosie and positively glowered at her.
"Shouldn't you be home in bed?" He gestured toward her naked neck and glared.
She stared, certain she looked like an owl on Prozac. Kent hadn't so much as glanced at Roland, and Rosie knew she should be angry at
Kent made idle circles on the table top with his glass. Maybe when he came back, he'd talk to him, try to work things out. Or buy him out. He closed his eyes briefly. The thought of handling Beachline alone gave him pause. Which made no sense at all, because that's exactly what he'd been doing for months. But he had no desire to make it a permanent condition. He took a swallow of Scotch, shoved Con out of his mind, and leaned back in his chair.
He had pleasanter things to think about, like a certain quirky, one-of-a-kind woman with the maternal instinct of a rabbit, who, in a matter of days, had so turned him on that his wake-up condition was painfully predictable. Waking up aroused was okay when a man could do something about it, but when his only something was an icy shower, he was in a bad way. Yeah, if it was just good old-fashioned lust, he'd have alternatives He glanced disinterestedly around the packed room. More than one opportunity in this place. He stifled a yawn.
His nose picked up on a scent. Something from the kitchen. Clove. Cinnamon. Both. He swiveled in his chair.
Rosie. She hadn't spotted him yet, even though she was only about three feet away, sitting with Jonesy. His whole body straightened, and his hand fell away from his drink. He couldn't believe he'd missed her on the way in. Maybe because she looked so... different. Her brace was gone, exposing a pale, delicate neck, and her hair was swept back and up in a wild head-topping arrangement that would baffle a NASA scientist. She was spectacular.
And a man's arm was draped casually on the back of her chair.
She was with someone.
A blast of unexpected jealousy effectively halted all normal thought processes in his brain. By the time it cleared, he found himself calmly evaluating two courses of rational action. Either doing the cave man thing—which involved bludgeoning her date with a steel-studded cudgel and dragging Rosie from the room by her copper hair—or heeding the sage advice of an old deodorant commercial: "Never let 'em see you sweat."
Still undecided, he got to his feet. They led him directly to Rosie.
Chapter 8
"That's nice. That's real nice," Rosie said, trying to widen her eyes enough to appear somewhat interested. Not that it mattered. Roland was a lot more interested in Roland than conversational feedback.
What the heck had Jonesy been thinking of to set her up -with this guy? She looked at her watch. The way she had it figured, she'd been here about six weeks, and they hadn't even been served dinner yet. There had to be a way out of this date. She massaged her newly accessible throat and clamped her teeth over a welling yawn. Maybe she could convince ole Roland to FedEx his ego to her place. She'd stroke it a few hundred times and send it back. Easier for all concerned. While Roland droned on about Roland, she tried to come up with an escape plan.
She couldn't risk kicking Jonesy under the table again, or the woman would be going home in a wheelchair. Obviously Jonesy liked her own date. Sheesh!
Should've brought my own car, darn it. If Jonesy reneges on her promise to drive me home, I'll—
"What are you doing here, O'Hanlon?"
The voice came from behind her, cool and unfriendly. Rosie looked up and into the last pair of eyes she expected to see. And of course she was immediately warm all over, glad, mad, and befuddled.
"Kent?" she questioned, hitting a high note on the dumb response-o-meter.
"Last I checked," he said mirthlessly, nodding in Jonesy's direction and giving her a smile that looked as though it had already been used. Jonesy raised a brow and grinned back. Without acknowledging the two men at the table, Kent turned his gaze back to Rosie and positively glowered at her.
"Shouldn't you be home in bed?" He gestured toward her naked neck and glared.
She stared, certain she looked like an owl on Prozac. Kent hadn't so much as glanced at Roland, and Rosie knew she should be angry at
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